sadness Archives - Moniqs.com: Satisfaction For Art Lovers...

TEARS OF HUMANITY…

Monique — Mon, 16 Nov 2015 15:41:08 +0000

Tears of humanity, tears of humanity,

flowing eternally early and late…

Flowing invisibly, flowing in secrecy,

ever abundantly, ever unceasingly –

flowing as rain flows with autumn finality

all through the night like a river in spate

(1849) Fyodor Tyutchev

translation Peter Tempest

Monument to the Dead (1895) by French sculptor Albert Bartholomé

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FRIDA KAHLO ~ THE CURTAIN OF MADNESS

Monique — Sat, 03 Oct 2015 08:54:38 +0000

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s – my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.”
― Frida Kahlo

Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird, was painted by Frida Kahlo in 1940.

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CAMILLE CLAUDEL ~ LIVING IN A NIGHTMARE

Monique — Thu, 02 Apr 2015 09:11:21 +0000

I have fallen into an abyss. I live in a world so curious, so strange. Of the dream that was my life, this is my nightmare.”
Camille Claudel

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ZELDA FITZGERALD ~ LONELINESS

Monique — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 06:35:32 +0000

The sky lay over the city like a map showing the strata of things and the big full moon toppled over in a furrow like the abandoned wheel of a gun carriage on a sunset field of battle and the shadows walked like cats and I looked into the white and ghostly interior of things and thought of you and I looked on their structural outsides and thought of you and was lonesome.”
― Zelda Fitzgerald, Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda

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ANNA KARENINA ~ A STORY OF LOVE AND DESPAIR

Monique — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 12:09:21 +0000

“Sometimes she did not know what she feared, what she desired: whether she feared or desired what had been or what would be, and precisely what she desired, she did not know.”
― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Photo: Greta Garbo, 1934

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AKOSAH KWADWO ~ THE HEART IS NOT YET SWEET

Monique — Mon, 16 Jul 2012 20:14:59 +0000

And then we added the colors in the rain

The hundred pins in the skeletons of dust

In the dawn and evening

Of the wedding of mourning

In the earth of the harsh country

But if the sun falls

Within you in the years

And the heart is not yet sweet

Let no one touch it

In the how many years of the sun…

Akosah Kwadwo
2012

Painting is A Summer Night, 1890 by Winslow Homer

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TERESA WILMS MONTT ~ “TO DIE, AFTER FEELING EVERYTHING AND BEING NOTHING…”

Monique — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 20:55:40 +0000

TERESA WILMS MONTT POET FROM CHILE (Viña del Mar, 1893 – París 1921): She was born in a wealthy family, daughter of Federico Guillermo Wilms Montt and Brieba, and his wife Luz Victoria Montt and Montt. Given the social context of that time, her primary instruction was given to her by governesses and particular teachers.
When Teresa turned 17, she got married with Gustavo Balmaceda Valdés. In the following years (1911 y 1913) she gave birth to her daughters, Elisa and Silvia Luz. Almost right after the wedding, the problems between Gustavo and Teresa started, mainly due to how much the husband felt aggravated by his wife’s personality, who frequently attended to literary gatherings, and followed the anarchist ideals, and free masonry. Gustavo reacted sheltering himself in the gambling and alcohol; Teresa, on her side, sheltered herself in her friend and Gustavo’s cousin, Vicente Balmaceda Zañartu (whom she will refer on the future at her diaries as Jean).
After numerous marital conflicts, moving from one city to another and letters from Vicente Balmaceda addressed to Teresa, Gustavo Balmaceda convened a family trial, which contaminated her confinement in the convent of Preciosa Sangre, which she entered on October 18th of 1915, and escaped from it on June of 1916 setting off for Buenos Aires, helped by Vicente Huidobro. During her stay in the convent, she started a journal, in which she wrote her feelings about the loss of her daughters, being separated from Vicente Balmaceda and the motivations for her first suicide attempt on March 29th, 1916.
In Buenos Aires, she contributed to Nosotros magazines, in which also did contributed Gabriela Mistral and Ángel Cruchaga Santa María, among others. She also published her first work “Inquietudes Sentimentales”, a collection of fifty poems with surrealistic threads, that enjoyed an amazing success among the intellectual circles of Buenos Aires society. the same happened to “Los Tres Cantos”, work that explored eroticism and spirituality.
Two years after this work and after traveling to Barcelona and New York, she came back to Buenos Aires and published “Cuentos para Hombres que Todavía son Niños”. In it she evoked her childhood and some vital experiences, in tales of great originality and fantasy. “En la Inquietud del Mármol” was published in Barcelona and constituted a lyric toned elegy, made of 35 fragments, which central leitmotif was death. Written on first person, she focused her interest on the mediating role of love between life and death.
She continued traveling across Europe, visiting London and Paris, but always being a resident of Madrid. In 1920 she was reunited with her daughters in Paris; but after they were separated she become gravely ill. In this crisis, she consumed a large dose of Barbital , and she died on December 24th 1921.

In the last pages of her diary, she wrote: “To die, after feeling everything and being nothing…”.

Source count of the Moon

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JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER ~ SADNESS OF THE INTELLECT

Monique — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 06:17:37 +0000

SADNESS OF THE INTELLECT: Sadness of being misunderstood [sic]; Humor sadness; Sadness of love wit[hou]t release; Sadne[ss of be]ing smart; Sadness of not knowing enough words to [express what you mean]; Sadness of having options; Sadness of wanting sadness; Sadness of confusion; Sadness of domes[tic]ated birds, Sadness of fini[shi]ng a book; Sadness of remembering; Sadness of forgetting; Anxiety sadness…”

Jonathan Safran Foer (Everything is illuminated)

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ALFRED LORD TENNYSON ~ SADNESS

Monique — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 07:53:28 +0000

“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depths of some devine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER ~ SADNESS

Monique — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 16:40:59 +0000

“He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others–the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.”

Jonathan Safran Foer (Everything is Illuminated)

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